Thank You
by wurmpleburmple
Summary: You didn't like what you did. He didn't, either. But it's a shame you had to meet your hero belly-up in a dirty, dark alley for it. Into the Spiderverse, a short Noir/Reader.


"That convincer's gonna have a hard time convincin' me- sorry to say." He sounds borderline monotone as he towers over you, tone only mildly amused as the small pistol shakes in your hand, muzzle pointed at himself. A large gloved hand quickly reaches down and snags it from you by the barrel, grip almost entirely covering the damn gun, and you immediately let go. No resistance. Like maybe you were relieved he didn't make you test your mettle. He doesn't say a word as he cracks open the cylinder and you see your last three bullets hit the wet ground. "Seen too many of 'em to be shocked when someone throws lead, lately." He sounds tired.

Your left hand immediately flies to your misconstrued shirt hem, a nervous habit. You're fully aware of your predicament, cold seeping through your clothes against the hard brick wall of an alley's end in the bitter night. You were caught. Any one as plain as day could see that. And you knew what Spiderman did, typically, to lawbreakers.

"If I were any less of a man, I'd be calling up the big house now." His drawling timbre startled you into attention and away from your terrified train of thought. His trenchcoat seemingly flaps, trapped in a nonexistent alley breeze. He was standing still- that couldn't be right, though, could it?

"But it doesn't take a detective to see you're not a criminal. Get up." He cocks his head slightly to the right, an urge to get a move on. He hardly thought you a danger- your one saving grace he had pocketed, of no use to you anymore without bullets trying to persuade him you were criminally-minded. If he had any other reason to believe you were the hardboiled type, you'd already be incapacitated. The fact your hand shook in the presence of said firearm was all he needed to see. More heart than head. He wished he could say the same.

You scramble upwards, and notice how his goggles glint by the light of a nearby streetlamp. You were thankful the good detective was showing mercy, and by that fact you wouldn't disobey.

You're nervously sweating, despite the cold, and you realize how much you missed the jacket you ditched a block or so back. When you were being chased, the noises of thin streaks of web through the air got gradually closer- then one had caught that particular article of clothing, and you dropped it just as fast as you dropped that hot meal you stole. You did think yourself typically a good person- hoped you were- but everyone has moments of weakness. You were young, didn't have much experience in the workforce, but even you knew times were tougher than ever. The Depression was leaving its damned mark on just about every soul. You were driving yourself crazy eating on just donation canned goods, and your factory job was testing your mettle more so than holding a gun at your city's own superhero ever could.

"I won't say anything if you don't." Pity in his voice, your insides coil with slight guilt. He snaps you out of your next reverie, and your eyes go to him immediately. His hands are now resting inside his pockets (where your gun was, you thought with resounding annoyance), and he seemingly was at ease now. But you knew better than anything that looks could be deceiving. You'd be hard pressed to believe at any given moment he wasn't analyzing his surroundings with that notorious detective's eye. You began to chew your lip.

"Just try not to make it a habit."

There's a resounding silence as he eyes you- measuring you up one last time. No more funny business, he hopes. Maybe under better circumstances he'd go in with the charm on a pretty dame such as yourself, but he can't help feeling like you just might be in a vulnerable place this evening. He was too much of a troubled heart for that sort of thing, anyways.

Your lips part, before he turns away you can't help but say something. You need to say something.

"Thank you." There's a moment of minute surprise between you- him never hearing your voice before this moment, and you surprised on just how freely you gave it to him.

He laughs- a dry bark that takes you by surprise. He gives a sly two-finger salute as he heel-turns around and begins to plod off, dress shoe-steps echoing throughout the grimy, dark alley.

"I'll be seeing you." The trenchcoat never ceases it's drifting in the cold city wind as he walks out of the alley.

You'd be seeing him.


End file.
